Or tofu, but cooked with all manner of deliciousness by a street vendor at a night market in Malaysia.

All those things are terrible on their own, but are made great by context.

Beer, of course, falls into the same category.

Beer writer Neil Miller once told me one of his more memorable beer drinking momentsinvolved a Ranfurly going down like manna from heaven, after he had to wear a suit during an outdoor funeral.

For me, context managed to transform a beer I deride more than all others into exactly what I wanted.

Christmas Day, for me, is never about eating and drinking myself silly in one place.

Instead, I do what my partner's brother calls my Christmas Dance.

I leave the house early on Christmas morning to drive around the Wellington region, popping in on as many family members I can.

But the large amount of driving miles means the number of beers I should drink can be counted on my thumbs.

Not that it matters, of course. Christmas is - for non-Christians, at least - about catching up with family and friends, and us humans seem to do it best around a table full of food and drink.

Those two things, food and drink, somehow give people who may not see each other for a year something to talk about.

But while the food is similar for most - turkey, ham (and ham every which way for every meal following) and peas - the drink is anything but.

Especially if you are driving.

But there is always room for a single beer, especially when the sun pops out to burn my arm as it hangs out of the window while I drive the Corolla - no air conditioning in that beast - along the Wellington motorway.

The first stop for my 2013 Christmas Dance is a flat my sister is at, where she is helping host a bit of an orphan's Christmas for a few people.

''Want a beer?''

With Wellington having one of its good days, I can't say no. So I don't, and am met with a Tui.